by Jeff Wheeler
It came to Annon’s mind immediately. “There is an oak tree in the middle of the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos.”
Neodesha smiled at him and twisted her fingers together. “She is a Dryad tree. One who was doomed to die because of her proximity to that city. He saved her.”
“The tree looked dead to me,” Annon said.
“Oaks are very resilient. It would surprise you. Was there a clump of mistletoe in the branches?”
He remembered it perfectly though he only recalled seeing it once. His memory was astonishingly clear. “Yes.”
“That is one of the ways you can tell. The mistletoe is a sign of our presence. In some kingdoms, it is a tradition during the winter festivals to kiss beneath a sprig of mistletoe.” Her smile was offset by a dimple. “The tradition was created by the Druidecht, of course, who alone know the truth of it.”
Annon shifted uneasily, uncomfortable from the intensity of her gaze. There was a power in it still. “And by looking at a person, you can take their memories.”
She nodded. “Tell me of your world,” she said, shaking his knee. “What kingdom do you come from?”
He shrugged, feeling awkward. “I am an orphan, but I was raised by the Druidecht in Wayland. Reeder was my…my mentor.” He felt the crushing weight of the loss suddenly, so powerful and violent that tears stung his eyes.
“Your memories are powerful,” she said comfortingly. “They will be from now on. They will burden you, it is true, but they will also serve you. You will remember things that others have forgotten. Tell me of Wayland. Where is it?”
“Several days south of here,” Annon said, struggling to control his feelings. He brushed his eyes on the back of his hand, amazed to see tears glistening on his skin. “The kingdom is sparsely populated due to the Plague. Small villages here and there, spread far from each other. Farms mostly. They grow much of the food that feeds the other kingdoms.”
“And how do they treat the spirits of Mirrowen?”
“They are mostly ignorant of them. Unwittingly, they destroy their lairs and homes. The Druidecht try to teach them, but they are more interested in the price of wheat.” He reached out and touched her hair, surprising himself. He jerked his hand back.
She smiled. “It’s the magic, Annon. Keep talking. It will help you if you keep talking.”
He wanted to. The look she gave him was so eager, he could not resist. He told her about his childhood. He explained his feelings of abandonment by Tyrus and how he had thrown himself into Druidecht lore. He revealed the fireblood and asked if she knew about it. She shook her head and implored him to keep talking. So he did. He explained the summons of Tyrus to Kenatos, the quest for Drosta’s lair. Even meeting Drosta himself and the encounter with the Kishion. He held nothing back. It was a relief to talk about it to someone. To purge the emotions and confusion he had been carrying for so long.
It was midnight by the time he finished.
The air was cold, but her presence warmed him. They sat so close their knees often touched. As he finished his story, she nodded in understanding and covered his hand with hers.
“There,” she said. “Speaking our troubles to another lessens them. Some seek me to purge their memories. They do not wish to know my name, only to speak of their troubles and thus pass them to me. When they leave, they have forgotten that portion of their lives. Some say too much and forget who they even are when they leave. They abandon a wife or children because they no longer wish to be bound by the connection or feel the hurt that comes with it. But those kinds of men leave weaker, not stronger. They feel an ache that they cannot salve. Part of them is missing. Part of them is left at the tree.”
Annon felt the softness of her hand. He looked in her eyes and nodded slowly. “I do not wish to be rid of my memories. You were speaking the truth to me, though? I will not forget that this happened when I leave?”
“Will you?” she asked teasingly. Then she rested her hands in her lap and sat straight. “Now, Annon. You have recounted your troubles. Use your new gift of wisdom and begin to solve them. You likely have harbored some ill-formed notions about yourself and others. Start with your sister.”
Annon exhaled slowly. He brought her face to his mind. Almost in a moment, everything she had ever said flashed through his mind. He frowned, for a feeling of dread had begun to squirm inside his stomach.
“Why do you grimace?”
Annon stared at her. “I have a bad feeling about her.”
Neodesha gave him a knowing smile. “Why?”
He thought more. Fragments and pieces began to slide together in his mind. “Because she is Romani. She is not trying to buy her freedom. She was sent by the Romani, likely Kiranrao, to steal the blade…the dagger I told you of.” His neck prickled with anger and resentment.
Her lips pursed slightly. “Do not be too harsh in your judgment of her, Annon. If you were raised in that life, you would have done the same. But I have the feeling you are right. She is trapped in a hunter’s snare. Remember that an animal will often kill itself faster trying to escape. What it needs is another creature to free it from its bondage. That is the way with most traps.”
Annon felt the wisdom in her words. “Paedrin is who he always claimed to be. I do not know where the Kishion took him. But I feel he can be trusted.”
She wrinkled her nose and nodded in agreement. “Bhikhu are rarely duplicitous. It is easier to speak the truth all the time than to try and remember the lies told now and again. Paedrin can be trusted.”
“Erasmus. I do not know him very well.”
“Tyrus trusted him with your safety. Whether you trust Erasmus depends on how much you trust Tyrus. The same with Drosta.”
“But Drosta is a Druidecht.”
“But he was a Paracelsus first. Strange how people yearn to become holy only after years of depravity.” She smiled knowingly. “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.”
Annon chuckled softly. “So true.”
“Believe me, many a young Finder have hunted the woods in vain to glimpse a Dryad. And it was not wisdom they sought. My kind tend not to aid Finders until they are well seasoned in years and more desirous of imparting memories and conversation. Consider it a compliment that I have trusted you with my very life. With my name, you could force me to do many things I would detest.”
Annon shuddered. “I would never…”
She touched his arm. “I know.”
He sighed heavily. “I suppose I must think now on my uncle. Or the man I believed to be my uncle.” He rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully, awash in the conflicting miasma of emotions. “I do not recall him ever telling me he was my uncle.”
“Go farther back,” she coaxed. “What is your earliest memory of him?”
He explored his memories even farther. Most were new to him. Brief flashes of feelings and intense loneliness. He suffered under the weight of a child’s pain. Memories were blurry, especially further back. If he went further, would he even remember his birth?
She touched his wrist. “Please understand, Annon. The strength of my magic is related to memories. We have memories to keep specific people in our thoughts. Our emotions bind the memories to us. Emotions like love, loyalty, or gratitude are strongest. The stronger the emotion, the more vivid and influential the memory. As you seek your greatest pains, you will find the memories that contain the greatest wisdom.”
It was as if saying the words made it true. He remembered a woman. He remembered her face—the claw marks on her face. The wounds that had barely healed. He was young—a babe, if that. A year old? Certainly less than two. He remembered her face and the fierce love he had for her. But then she was hurting him. She was making him cry. She was shaking him. He was frightened, terrified. There was shouting and screaming. He did not understand the words because he was still too young to comprehend language. But he understood the emotions and knew the woman was his mother. She was hurting him. She was shaking him. And there was Tyrus—younger but ju
st as imposing. His face also scarred by claw marks. Tyrus had taken him, pulled him up into his huge chest and shielded him. There were blue flames, orange flames spitting at them both. His child’s heart was in a terror. He clutched at Tyrus for protection and safety. He loved his mother, but she frightened him.
They abandoned a stone hut and went into a storm. Tyrus covered him with his cloak. There were screams of rage. The home was burning. The roof was ablaze. Screams of pain. Screams of madness. Tyrus was cooing to him, trying to blot out the sound. Annon was wailing hysterically. He was lost in the moment, in the nightmare. The rain was freezing. He was hungry, cold, abandoned.
There was a horse. Tyrus mounted it, clutching the baby in his arm. Smothered in the wet smell of wool, Annon struggled and whimpered until he cried himself to sleep.
When Annon awoke, he found his head in Neodesha’s lap, her fingers gently stroking his hair. She blotted his tear stains on her embroidered sleeve. Her look was tender.
He looked up at her, his emotions nearly too fragile to speak.
“We are bound together, you and I,” she said. “I experienced your memories as you relived them.” She smiled sadly, continuing to stroke his hair. “I do not think Tyrus of Kenatos means you harm. He felt and feels a certain degree of responsibility for you. The past makes that abundantly clear. Your mother had the fireblood. She was mad. Do not judge him harshly, Annon.” Her fingertip traced the edge of his lip. “Wisdom helps us understand that we are not alone in this great world. The sufferings of others cause us to suffer too. We are all bound. More so than we realize.” She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe it is time you faced the man you’ve known as your uncle. I do not think it coincidence that he is in Canton Vaud right now. Waiting for you.”
Nizeera began to purr. She is right. It is no accident. We face him together, you and I.
“I read this in a volume written a thousand years ago, ‘Tears at times have the weight of speech.’ They do indeed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon would never forget her face.
The Dryad’s kiss had altered him permanently. It was unsettling to realize that his memories were so sharp he could cut himself on them. Insignificant details from his past flitted through his mind as he walked back to Canton Vaud. Nizeera padded silently next to him, subdued by the experience that nearly cost them their lives.
You have powerful allies, Druidecht. And powerful enemies. Be cautious.
It was dawn again when he reached the camp, the night having passed in sullen silence. He was fatigued, weary from the march, but he first sought Reeder’s tent to see if Erasmus was still there. He was not.
He asked for directions to the Thirteen and was pointed toward a series of grand pavilions. Thin trailers of mist crept amidst the awakening Druidecht. Small dashes of light displayed the presence of the morning spirits, some carrying gossip. He was approached by several, some bowing in respect before flitting on. Nizeera’s tail began to swish again. He thought he heard the faint murmur of her purring.
As Annon approached the grand pavilions, he caught sight of Palmanter emerging from the folds. Several spirits attended him, and he nodded his head to them and offered a few words in response. Gazing around the camp, his eyes fell on Annon. He seemed surprised.
“It happened that quickly?” he asked in a low voice after approaching. “You met the Dryad?”
Annon nodded. “I must speak with my uncle.”
Palmanter pursed his lips. “I thought you might. Your Preachán friend is with him.” He put his meaty hand on Annon’s shoulder. “He sought asylum here, lad, but we cannot grant it. He bears something of great evil. A blade that speaks to the mind. We cannot permit it to remain longer in Canton Vaud. There are many Druidecht suffering from its effects. Will you leave with him?”
Annon stared at the older man. He was not sure of the answer. Palmanter sensed his hesitation. His eyes narrowed. “Be wary, Annon. There are stories about your uncle. Be careful.”
“I will.”
Palmanter gestured to another pavilion, a smaller one. Several Bhikhu guarded it.
“He is your prisoner?” Annon demanded.
The older man shook his head. “They are there to protect him from the Kishion. At his request.”
Wise of him, Nizeera thought.
Annon stroked Nizeera’s head and then walked over to the small tent. He could hear voices inside. The Bhikhu stared at him, studying his features, and then nodded; they opened the flap.
Tyrus was inside, sharing a morning meal with Erasmus. Both were seated on large cushions, eating a variety of gathered fruit.
“I estimated you would arrive this morning,” Erasmus said smugly to Annon. “I should have wagered a few ducats on the outcome. Your uncle offered that you would breakfast in the city of Silvandom and not here. I was a fool not to take the wager.”
Tyrus looked up at Annon. “Have you eaten yet?”
Annon shook his head. His jaw muscles felt as hard as iron. He kept his emotions in check and stared at Tyrus’s face for any sign of resemblance. There were the tiny scars, as if claws had ravaged his face long ago.
“There is a place in Silvandom,” Tyrus said. “A bridge on the outskirts of the city proper. Not many know of it because it connects to the city amidst the mountains at a higher elevation. A waterfall is nearby. It’s impressive. There are shops on the bridge. A place for weary travelers to rest before entering the city. A place to eat. It is called Shearwater.”
Tyrus rose to his full height. He withdrew the long cylindrical object that Annon had last seen him holding. Holding it in his fist, he extended his arm toward Annon.
“If we had made that wager this would be cheating,” Erasmus said as he gobbled another piece of fruit and hurriedly stood. He rested his hand on Tyrus’s arm.
Annon stared at the jeweled object. There were stones set into cunningly worked gold. The stones sparkled in the lamplight. The device was extended to him—an offer. An invitation.
“You are not my uncle,” Annon said, unwilling to move. His anger started to rekindle. He shoved it back violently.
“I know,” Tyrus answered simply. “Come with me. Learn the truth. I promised you in my tower that you would.”
Annon hesitated. A part of him whispered a warning. Another part of him was too curious to resist. This was the invitation to learn Tyrus’s secrets. He knew it would only be offered once. He had to make a decision. One choice was to stay at Canton Vaud and learn more of the Druidecht ways. The other was to accompany Tyrus and eventually face the Scourgelands.
He reached out and gripped the open end of the cylinder.
“Have a hold on your cat,” Tyrus said, a pleased glint in his eye. As Annon grabbed the ruff of Nizeera’s neck, he heard the angelic song of spirits shudder as the device made everything go black.
In a moment, the blink of an eye, they were leagues away. The air was frigid and sharp. It smelled of fir trees and juniper. The land was choked with snow. They stood on a stone bridge, wide enough for a single wagon to cross. On the other side was a stone house with works of timber for a roof and faded red tiles. The roof had a curious slant to the corners, which were pointed like an ox’s horns. Instead of a straight edge, it sagged, creating little dips and sways that gave it a distinguished appearance. There were three levels to the building—a large main section of house and then two narrower levels forming a second and third floor, each with their own slanted rooflines and pointed corners.
The strange house was built into the rock itself, and it was difficult to see where the walls began and the mountainside ended. The air was frightfully cold, and Annon hugged himself immediately.
“Look,” Tyrus said, pointing at the edge of the bridge down into a lush valley below.
Annon stared in amazement. The valley was teardrop shaped and full of majestic trees and enormous stone structures, each with the same shape and design of the home ahead of them—only grande
r and more impressive. The structures below existed with the trees and were shaped and defined in open spaces. It seemed that no tree had been felled to clear the way, but that the structures had been built amidst the trees deliberately.
Erasmus whistled. “Silvandom. It is too beautiful to describe. The timber here is worth a fortune.”
“Many poets have tried to describe it,” Tyrus said. “And many Romani have tried to steal it. It’s protected by the mountains on all sides. Only a few narrow passes lead into the valley. See the cliff edges? This valley was carved by ice thousands of years ago. Giant walls of ice strong enough to split stone. See that bald rock face over there? The other half is there, on the opposite side.”
Annon saw it and was skeptical. How could ice have carved such a thing? The cliffs on each side were full of waterfalls, emptying into rivers and streams in the valley below. It was an idyllic place. No wonder the Vaettir had claimed it.
“That is the Shearwater,” Tyrus said. “We can rest and eat there and then journey to the city later. You have questions, I am sure. Hopefully they are good ones.”
Tyrus took them to the stone house on the far side of the bridge. He paused on the entryway, staring up at a blotchy stain on the wood frame at the top of the door. Annon wondered about the stain, noticing Tyrus’s slight pause on observing it. He rapped firmly on the door and then pushed it open.
Inside was a tiny Vaettir woman, her hair well silvered; she walked with an obvious shuffle caused by age and pain. She looked at Tyrus and smiled a beaming smile and began to prattle off in the Vaettir tongue. Tyrus answered fluently, much to Annon’s surprise. He made some requests and then motioned toward a table and benches. The old woman nodded in reply and limped to the kitchen. No one else was in the room.
Tyrus seated himself at the table, planting his elbows on the pocked wood, and motioned for Annon to sit across from him. Nizeera wandered over to a large hearth and settled down on the warm stone.